Of everything I saw in Japan, Nikkō often comes to mind. All the time, even. I don’t know why, because it’s not even the most extraordinary place I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s the peacefulness. Maybe it’s the trees. The simple, genuine warmth of the home I returned to in the evening, freeing me from the freezing cold I had been exposed to outside. Maybe the light. I’ll try to do my memories justice. I’ll tell you about Nikkō.

I have to start at the beginning: that rainy morning when I left Tokyo. Luckily, I was heading north, and the trains that could take me there left from Asakusa Station—the neighborhood where I lived. I had bought a pass that allowed me to use trains at will for three days, but when I arrived to buy my ticket, the lady explained that express trains were not included in the offer—only regional ones. She took out a notepad and meticulously wrote down the names of the stops and my connection times in black ink. I had three changes to make. And the train left in four minutes. I ran to the platform, deciding to place my blind trust in this kind woman in uniform. If she hadn’t given me the right information, I would end up lost in the Tokyo countryside.

In Tokyo, the train and subway networks are intertwined. Or rather, let’s say that regional trains in the city center act as subways. They feed the metropolis, like veins and arteries pumping blood through a body. The network, dense in the center, expands and spreads into hundreds of small lines that go to the surrounding cities and regions. Tokyo seems to go on forever. I already had that impression when I arrived from the airport, flying over acres of streets and brown buildings undulating in the dawn light. Here, it’s the same, except that everything seems sad and charmless to me. And the wet monotony of the sky doesn’t help.

Despite a slight feeling of anxiety, I managed to change trains without any problems, and everything went just as the station attendant had said it would. The industrial landscape gave way to open countryside dotted with houses, and we began to see mountains. Luckily, the sun came out too. I decided to look up from my reading and focus solely on observing the scenery passing by outside the window. Even the people politely hurrying along the platform were worth taking a photo of.

My only concern upon arriving in Nikkō was to drop off my things at the lodge. It was about a 20-minute walk, which didn’t really bother me. I quickly realized that the road was uphill, that the sun was doing its job, and that with my fleece and down jacket, I was going to die (of heat)—I should point out that I couldn’t take them off because I was strapped down on all sides with my 25 kg of various bags.

I passed a yakisugi (charred wood) house with a rather incredible design, standing out in the neighborhood, where the houses were more traditional. Nature was still in the damp barrenness of early spring, but was taking on warm, pleasant colors. Everything was peaceful. The lodge was located on the edge of the forest, looking more like a large old house than an inn. Its roof was red. A smiling, warm-hearted old man welcomed me and offered to check me in right away. Joy.

Far from the sleek, designer aesthetic of the guest houses you see on Instagram, I felt like I was staying at my grandparents’ house. Everything was old-fashioned and kitsch, and the air smelled of cold fire and stale air. Nevertheless, I found the whole place rather charming. The patch of sunlight falling right on the folded comforter on my bed convinced me that I was in the right place.

I took undisguised pleasure in removing my clothes. My arms were wet. My arms, yes. Not just my armpits, but all the skin on my arms. It was like an oven inside my fleece, which I put out to dry, along with the rest of my clothes. Now refreshed and lightened by the removal of my gear, I wolfed down a quick lunch and set off to explore Nikkō.

The Nikkō region is home to a large national park. It is renowned for its vibrant, unspoiled nature, its lakes, its onsen, and its shrines sheltered by forests. There was one just a stone’s throw from my lodge: the Nikkō Tōshō-gū shrine. As I was about to leave, the old man called out to me: “Take the upper road to the shrine. It’s prettier and there are fewer cars.” I followed his advice. The road was indeed lined with tall, slender trees. It was March, but certain flashes of color and the bitter cold that quickly returned in the shade reminded me of autumn. 

The arrival near the shrines (because there are several, and a museum, in the same area) pulled me out of my solitary reverie. I found myself back among the ballet of vehicles, a crowded parking lot, and visitors slowly coming and going. There, on a large esplanade, stretched the line to buy tickets. But strangely, the crowd didn’t bother me too much. I joined the single-file line leading up to the large gate, eager to enter this sacred place.

It is difficult to accurately describe what one feels once through the gate. The way the light falls on the red of the ornate pavilions. The hushed silence that reigns, barely disturbed by the swarm of bodies wandering about. These bodies carry with them a certain poetry. The stone lanterns, the staircases, the matte gold of the ornaments—everything here seems at rest. No doubt because the cedars watch over and spread their protective and mystical veil over the humble wishes of men. For that is what envelops you in the hollow of this forest: a feeling of profound humility that no grandiloquence can dispel. The buildings are beautiful, opulent, finely crafted, symbolic, but what remains with you in the end is the aura.

That’s where I draw my fortune. You can do it almost anywhere, but this place spoke to me. I believe in energy. In momentum, in signs. I’ve kept the paper, of course.

My visit to the shrine ended with a tour of the Dragon Pavilion. It was a guided tour (which I realized too late) in Japanese, during which the guide struck the ceiling with a stick in various places, sometimes creating resonances of rare power. He explained why, as the small group ooh-ed and aah-ed, while I didn’t understand a word.

As the afternoon was already well underway, I didn’t have time to visit anything else. So I slowly made my way back down to Nikkō, crossing the charming Shinkyō Bridge. Nikkō doesn’t really have a center, except for the small square outside the station. The rest of the town consists of a long road leading up to the bridge, lined with restaurants and various shops. It’s not particularly pleasant or pretty, but the atmosphere at the end of the day makes it very enjoyable. I observed the passersby, the details, the crafts in the shop windows, the mountains in the background. I ate a small cream and chocolate tart at Nikko Tart-Ya, and it was an incredible taste experience.

Back at my lodge, I sat on the small terrace to make a phone call. It was the blue hour. The stove heating up inside filled the outside air with the smell of wood fire that I love so much, and I reveled in the falling cold. I felt sheltered from everything.

In that soft bed, under the fluffy duvet, I slept like a baby. It reminded me of my grandmother’s bed. A restful night’s sleep that set me up for the day of sightseeing ahead. I planned to take the bus up to see Lake Yu and Lake Chuzenji.
Shortly after leaving Nikkō, the road began to wind its way up from the valley to the heights. We could see snow on the sides of the road and the bluish shadows of a mountain range in the distance. When the door opened at Chūzenji, the air rushing into the empty bus was freezing. I didn’t know how I was going to cope. I still had 45 minutes to go, traveling along narrow roads enclosed by rows of orange trees, still seeing patches of translucent, dripping, slightly dirty snow. At this time of year, the bus doesn’t go any further than my destination for the day: Yumoto.

A small remote village, nestled among black trees. The bus left, leaving me there alone. The atmosphere here was strange. Empty and still. Not a shop in sight, not a sign of life. At most, a light bulb shining behind a reception desk. There were only hotels and residences housing onsen. In other seasons, I imagine the place comes alive and bustles on the shores of its lake. But right now, I was a survivor who had woken up in a snowy hole in the mountains of Japan, looking for salvation.
I naturally headed for Lake Yu, since that was the main reason for my presence there. Its dark bluish-green surface, eaten away by patches of opalescent ice, left me speechless. I walked on floating pontoons, my feet in the snow. I came across two macaques who stared at me, pausing in their search for dry grass. A rather unexpected encounter.

I had planned to walk around the lake, which would have taken me down to a pretty waterfall below. But the snow was still too deep, and the path was inaccessible. It started to rain. I quickly realized that my plans had fallen through, so I needed to readjust. The next bus that could take me back to Chūzenji was in six minutes, the one after that in forty. I was a seven-minute walk from the bus stop. Without thinking, I launched into a frantic—and desperate—sprint to catch it. Another reminder of my lack of stamina. I struggled to run for more than thirty seconds without my throat burning. But I managed to jump on the bus in time.

Relief brought a smile to my face. So that my day wouldn’t be completely wasted, I decided to get off well before the village of Chūzenji and finish the journey on foot along the lake shore. The rain caught me as I stepped outside, and it was the power of the primultimate—every moment that is both the first and the last—that kept me from changing my mind. I didn’t have a raincoat (thinking it would just be cloudy) or an umbrella. It was cold. But this was probably the first and last time I’d ever be there, so to have no regrets, I decided to enjoy the moment as it came, even if it was wet, gray, and a little muddy.

It took me a while to reach Chūzenji. The path, thick with a soft, slippery layer of amber leaves, wound beneath the trees. The lake was on my right, a long expanse bordered by monochrome hills. A pencil-sketch backdrop. Swan-shaped pedal boats waited on large pontoons, as if abandoned. There was something heartbreaking and a little sad about them. But seeing them there made me imagine them floating in the sunshine, with the brown heads of laughing children on board.

I was frozen when I finally arrived at the village. It had been raining on me for over an hour, and the wind, although weak, had long since pierced my poor body. I found refuge in a restaurant run by two old women, a place as outdated as my lodge. They seated me near a small gas heater, and I had the good sense to order nabeyaki udon—a dish of noodles served in broth in a small cast-iron pot. It couldn’t have been more comforting or appropriate.

The bus took me back to Nikkō via a different route from the one we had taken earlier. Dizzying and magnificent—we could see the next five or six hairpin turns through the window. As a mountain lover, I appreciated the thrill. The city, under gloomy weather, was unsurprisingly a little less appealing. Strolling near the station in search of curiosities, I was tempted by a Nikko Age Yuba Manju—the ultimate selling point being that you can only find it here in Nikkō. It’s a tempura (savory fritter) made from sweet red bean paste (the Japanese specialty par excellence). Put like that, I agree, it doesn’t sound very inspiring. But I assure you that it was one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted there—an absolutely incredible and unique blend of flavors and textures. Exciting.

Back at my lodge, I settled into one of the huge, soft sofas. A TV was showing CNN in the corner. The stove crackled, enveloping me in its warmth like a big duvet. I wrote in my travel journal while eating miso crackers. Everything was in its place. And when I bent my leg and my one and only pair of jeans ripped at the knee, I smiled. They had lasted 210 days.

Original soundtrack of the moment